Categories > Celebrities > Guns n' Roses > If You Want
Three days.
That’s how long it had been since Pandora’s.
Three days, and I still didn’t fucking know what to think about it.
I stared at the cracked plaster ceiling our apartment, tossing one of his guitar picks in my hand. I had been dancing to Knock Me Down when some tow-headed kid had sidled up to the pole with a smirk plastered on his face. I had a guess as to what was coming, but kept a smile on, kept shaking my ass like a good little girl, hoping he was just there to tip.
Of course, when I felt his hand, I knew that tipping wasn’t what he had in mind.
I hadn’t planned to do anything, honestly. If I had been left to my own devices, I would have kept on dancing, gritted my teeth, and resisted kicking him square in the face.
But apparently, Izzy had had other ideas.
I curled up on my side, smiling at his pick in my hand. I hadn’t even realized that he’d been there until I saw a greasy black head flying through the crowd. He’d knocked the guy to the ground and started whaling on him like it was going out of style. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been scared: I had been. His anger was scary, the way he was acting was scary, the look on his face was scary.
But the fact that he had been sticking up for me was more than enough to make up for that, and it had meant a lot to me.
And the past three days had meant even more.
I couldn’t remember a time, other than when we’d first met, that we’d been so good. We fit together, and when we got along, it was effortless and blissful. I closed my eyes, beaming at nothing. He’d reluctantly left for the studio at six, promising that he’d be back soon. I had nodded and immediately begun lazing around.
Just waiting for him to get home.
Which is why I was wrapped in one of his button-ups, cuddling his pick, and watching a crack in the plaster ceiling.
The door slammed and I immediately jolted out of my thoughts, swinging my legs off of the mattress, bare feet hitting the floor expectantly. The jangling noise of car keys and the muffled thump of a guitar sounded in the kitchen, followed by the wooden snap of a cabinet door.
I peeked around the doorway. There he was, with his back to me. I padded up behind him and he turned around, Jack in hand, black hair falling in his eyes, his shirt unbuttoned to his navel. I bit my lip as I felt myself tingle. God, did I really have to wait to fuck him until tonight? He grinned, setting the bottle down on the counter.
“Jenny.” He held out his arms plaintively, like a child, and I smiled to myself and went into them. He gave me a squeeze so hard that it almost hurt, and then grasped my waist and lifted me onto the counter.
“Hard day?” I asked as he buried his face in my stomach, arms locked around my midriff.
“No harder than usual,” came his muffled voice from somewhere around my bellybutton. “Same old same old.”
I stroked his dark hair, setting my chin on top of it. “Well, I sure am glad you’re home. Guess what I’m not wearing.”
He pulled away beaming, hands now resting on top of my thighs and looked me in the eye. “I’m fucking glad too. I wish you could be there sometimes, I’m not into Axl’s all-business shit.”
“Is that an invitation?” I teased, stroking his hands, trying to send him the message. He got it loud and clear, inching his hands up my legs in maddeningly small intervals.
“Jenny, would you like to drop by the studio next time we get together to get nothing done?” He smiled mischievously, knowing what he was doing to me.
“Izzy Stradlin.” I tried to sound stern, but I was pretty sure it came out more breathy than firm. I grabbed his hair as his left hand snaked its way beneath my oversize shirt. He winked wickedly, never breaking eye contact as the pad of his thumb began to trace light, barely-there circles on the inside of my thigh.
“Yes, darling?” Tracing the circles on both sides now.
“You’re a bad, bad boy,” I breathed, gripping his shoulders.
“Mm.” He made a general noise of amiable agreement before moving his hand close enough to barely brush my heat.
I gasped, feeling myself slickening, and he just laughed and threw me over his shoulder.
“Izzy!” I demanded, hair dangling down to his knees.
He responded by playfully slapping my ass, to which I could only make an indignant noise.
He made his way down the hallway and set me on my feet in front of the closet, hands moving from my thighs up the curve of my butt. Pressing against him, I looked him square in the face before leaning forward and licking his lower lip, my tongue traveling over his slightly chapped skin, tasting him. He was delicious, cigarette smoke and gin and apples and spice rolled into one. He moaned against my mouth, and I couldn’t help smirking. Served him right.
“Jen,” He groaned, burying his hands in my hair.
“Yes, Izzy?” I was sure of the words that were coming, hoping for them.
He pulled away slightly, running his thumb over my bottom lip.
“Want to go to the Troubadour?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Is that some kind of sexual innuendo?”
He grinned devilishly.
“Izzy Stradlin!”
“What’d I do now?” he asked innocently, ducking my swing.
“You know very fucking well-”
He cut me off with his lips against mine, pressing hard enough to bruise. When he finally pulled away, I was short of breath and dizzy.
“C’mon, you can wear the new red thong.”
“Oh, you-”
He grinned and ducked again.
The wind whipped through my hair as we sped over the pavement of the Sunset Strip, my hands around Izzy’s lean midriff. He’d opted for the bike, so we could see the skyline. I looked around me. It was truly beautiful to me. Bright lights and psychedelic signs and loud voices. L.A. wasn’t such a bad place to be.
Especially with him.
I leaned my head back, watching the streetlights go by. No stars, but with all the lights, it didn’t really matter. Izzy would never say it, but I could tell that even though he belonged here, there was something in him that didn’t quite fit in. I saw it too. It was something I didn’t see in Slash or Steven or even Duff. I saw a bit in Axl, but his ego sometimes smothered it. It was a large part of Izzy.
It was difference.
Not difference in talent or skill or intelligence- it was a difference in something else.
And I didn’t know what it was, but it drew me to him like no one else had ever intrigued me, interested me.
He was the only one of his kind I’d ever met.
Izzy slowed the Harley down in front of the club, pulling around to the back lot. He flipped down the bike stand and I swung off first, leather skirt hiking up over my hips. He dismounted and took note, coming up behind me, moving his hands onto my bare skin underneath my shirt.
“You look hot as hell,” he murmured in my ear, squeezing my waist between his rough, warm guitar fingertips.
“You’re so romantic, Romeo,” I told him, but smiled to myself as we made our way around the side of the Troubadour. It was already packed- Friday nights were always absolute madhouses. When we’d first gone out together, I’d noticed how he acted around crowds. He would duck and weave and slink in and out. He wasn’t into it.
I was.
I liked the chattering of the crowd and the energy of the party.
So we’d begun to establish a system. He’d pick me up. He’d drive wherever we were going, because I didn’t have a car and couldn’t afford one. On the way, sometimes we’d talk; sometimes there would be dead silence. Neither of us minded that. He’d always pay for me to get in or for my drinks, because I’d had practically no money in those days. But I always went in first. I led the way for him, let him do his own quiet thing. He’d told the band we were fuckbuddies, and I told the rest of the dancers for the band the same thing.
I don’t think either one of us had wanted to admit anything different.
In fact, now, seven months later, still neither of us had admitted anything different.
Not out loud, at least.
I smiled.
Little had they known.
Sure enough, he grabbed my hand and fell back behind me as the door swung open. There was the usual noisy crowd. The club was packed with rebellious teenagers and musicians and strippers, all smoking cigarettes and dancing. The bar was busy, with three bartenders churning out shots and tumblers. I pulled Izzy in that direction, itching for a drink. I recognized the bartender with a start; we’d dated briefly when I’d first moved to L.A. Goddamnit, what was his name? Jim? James? It was James, I decided. I did remember that we’d slept together once, maybe twice. I reached over the heads of the throng at the bar as Izzy hung back, hands in his pockets.
“Vodka and tonic and a Jack!”
I had to yell to be heard, and I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me or my voice. The second he turned, however, his face morphed into familiarity and I resisted swearing to myself. I didn’t really feel like having to make awkward, post-relationship talk.
“Jen! I haven’t seen you in forever-” The noise of the joint drowned out the rest of what he said, so I just nodded politely and glanced back at Izzy. He didn’t seem aware of the guy, looking around at the crowd and eyeing the jukebox. James waved some people away from the bar, making room for me to come up against the counter, pulling out glasses and chattering all the while. I just nodded occasionally, not really listening to what he was saying.
“You look great.” He eyed me up and down, pushing my drink across the bartop. I took the glass and opened my mouth to say something when a strong arm circled me from behind.
“Doesn’t she?” Izzy’s voice inquired coolly, fingers gripping my waist.
“Oh-yeah- I, uh…” He looked wide-eyed at the two of us as Izzy’s cigarette smoke blew over the top of my head. I glanced up at him, and he winked before discarding the weed, pulling me against him, and kissing me until I saw stars. When we broke away, people were wolf-whistling and James’s mouth was slightly open, Izzy’s Jack forgotten in his hand.
“Thanks,” Izzy told him, plucking the glass from the bartender and leading me across the club. I poked him in the ribs, hard, and he gave me a wide-eyed look.
“What?”
“You know what,” I said, but smiled. Izzy shrugged, taking a swig out of his glass.
“Hey, gotta let people know whose lady you are.”
“Why, ‘cause you’re so big and fucking bad?”
“Yeah, girl.” I thought his half-grin and smile creases were going to kill me.
And he didn’t ask who the bartender was, didn’t ask how I knew him, didn’t ask anything, because Izzy just didn’t care enough.
And part of me loved him for it.
He pulled me into his lap when we reached a table, pushing his cigarette into the ashtray. I obliged, putting my arm around his neck and relishing in the pulsing beat of the music, the bright lights, and the feel of him underneath me, one of his hands carelessly on my hip. I liked to watch him. He was quiet almost all the time, but surrounded by people, he became almost completely introverted. Tonight he was playing mindlessly with his cigarette, with his eyes far away. I stared hungrily. I couldn’t help it. What I wouldn’t have given to go into that brain, to know what he was thinking. How I wished I could just pull his thoughts out, like thread, and separate them out before me until I understood.
Fucking enigma.
He turned and caught me looking at him. “What?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
He gave me the eye. “Obviously something. What, has my face gone green?”
I grinned, tugging his hat down over his eyes. “Nah, your face hasn’t gone green.”
“What is it then?” He laughed, pinching me hard on the butt.
“Izzy!” I swatted him, laughing too. “I dunno. You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Just you.”
He ducked his head, and I saw a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“It is,” I assured him, taking a swig of my drink, my hand on his shoulder.
He was human, too.
“Y’know, I was thinking. . .”
“You should try that more often,” I said, earning myself another pinch. “Ow!”
He grinned. “I said, I was thinking that I never did tell you that I wrote a fuckin’ song. Kinda owe it to you.”
“Oh? Is it about all my best features?” I couldn’t resist a wink.
He laughed, grinding his cigarette butt even further on the table. “No, actually, it’s about, you know, dealing.”
“Huh.” I looked at him curiously. “And why do you owe it to me?”
“Wrote it when you were at Slash’s. Day after the gig.”
“Oh. D’you think you’re going to put it on the album?”
“The never-ending one?” He laughs again, this time a bit bitterly. “Yeah. The guys all liked it. ‘Cause, y’know, they’ve done and had their share as well as me.”
“Well, I’m glad you got some inspiration, then,” I said a bit sarcastically. He got creative ideas from an argument that I took seriously. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
He tugged gently on my hair. “Hey, don’t get pissed just ‘cause you’re my muse.”
“Muse, eh? Like Maar and Picasso?”
He grinned. “Yeah, just like that.”
“I could stand it.” I unfolded myself off his lap, grabbed his hand. “C’mon, you wanna dance or what?”
“Do you mean you’re not going to ask me properly?” He sprawled in the chair, a maddeningly cocky look on his face. I rolled my eyes, getting up close to him and walking my fingers up his shoulder.
“You’re damn sexy and I want to fuck you. Wanna dance for a bit so you can take me home and we can get down to it?”
He took my hand and pulled himself to his feet, smirking lazily down at me. “Tha’ sounds alright, baby.”
I lead him into the thick of the crowd, the bass beat pulsing through my veins. What a fucking rush. Better than cocaine. Not by much, but it was.
Plus, the Stones were on.
Let’s Spend the Night Together. Perfect.
He turned me around and put his hands on my waist, and we moved up and down and side to side, the raunchy rhythm thumping. His hands were running up and down my shoulders, my back, the curves of my hips and I knew he had gotten an eyeful when he moved up against me again. Something firm was pressed against my thigh. I backed it up, fitting into him, grinding my hips. His fingertips digging into my sides, crushing me to him as we danced.
“Want to know something?” I whispered in his ear, my hand finding its way to bury in his hair.
“Hmm?” He fit his chin in the crook of my neck, looking into my eyes over my shoulder. I closed them, smashing back against him.
“You’re so big and fucking bad.” And then I couldn’t help it.
I laughed.
By the end of the night, he was walking funny and I was sure wet spots were creeping down the inside of my thighs. Nothing like Kiss for a little dirty dancing, and the badass thrum of Love Gun had just about done us both in. Roles reversed, he practically carried me out of the Troubadour.
“C’mon, I wanna get home, gotta-”
“Alright, alright, just-”
He tried to cut me off with a kiss, but I ducked. “No, no, you gotta wait.” I snickered when he practically groaned.
“Jen, I’ve been waiting nearly all fucking night. C’mon-”
“Get on the damn bike,” I told him. “Go on.”
He swung his leg over the seat, wincing slightly when he sat down, kicking the motorcycle to life. “You coming?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t hesitate, but instead of getting on behind him, turned so we were face to face and straddled both his lap and the Harley. He moaned as I pressed down onto his hardness, and I couldn’t help it when my eyes rolled back in my head.
Fuck me.
“Are you fucking serious?” He gasped, burying his head in my cleavage.
“C’mon, let’s go.” I was grinding up against him, getting wetter by the second. I wanted him inside me.
“Hold on tight!” And we roared out into the street, with him looking over my shoulder and me hugging his middle. I fitted my chin into the crook of his shoulder and hung on tight, the backwards rushing feeling flying through me. A half-lap dance on a motorbike: How much more L.A. could you get? We flew through the city, attracting looks and wolf whistles. I didn’t care. Nothing was real except him beneath me, him pressing into my skin. It was a good fucking thing he knew what he was doing, or we probably both could have been killed that night. Then again, what’s a little partying without a risk rush?
As we neared the apartment, I couldn’t help it. I squeezed him tight and let out a whoop, the happy noise whipped away by the air. Almost home.
When we pulled into the parking lot, burning rubber, he lifted me off the bike by the hips, letting it fall where it may, and carried me up the outside stairs. I locked my legs around him, and he fumbled with the key in the lock. When we staggered into the room, with me wrapped around his waist, he flicked on the light and ripped his shirt off, then his shoes. He dropped onto the bed, already wriggling out of his pants.
“C’mon, baby, get down here-”
He was practically panting. I loved seeing him like this. I pulled off my tight top slowly, showing him the full effect of the red lace. He froze on the bed, watching me.
“I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Oh god, Jenny, after all I’ve suffered tonight-”
I just smiled, licking my forefinger, trailing it to my chest. “Grab your favorite Aerosmith record.” Whipping my hair over, then back over my shoulders. Trailing my hand up my thigh.
“Because you’re in for a show tonight.”
That’s how long it had been since Pandora’s.
Three days, and I still didn’t fucking know what to think about it.
I stared at the cracked plaster ceiling our apartment, tossing one of his guitar picks in my hand. I had been dancing to Knock Me Down when some tow-headed kid had sidled up to the pole with a smirk plastered on his face. I had a guess as to what was coming, but kept a smile on, kept shaking my ass like a good little girl, hoping he was just there to tip.
Of course, when I felt his hand, I knew that tipping wasn’t what he had in mind.
I hadn’t planned to do anything, honestly. If I had been left to my own devices, I would have kept on dancing, gritted my teeth, and resisted kicking him square in the face.
But apparently, Izzy had had other ideas.
I curled up on my side, smiling at his pick in my hand. I hadn’t even realized that he’d been there until I saw a greasy black head flying through the crowd. He’d knocked the guy to the ground and started whaling on him like it was going out of style. I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been scared: I had been. His anger was scary, the way he was acting was scary, the look on his face was scary.
But the fact that he had been sticking up for me was more than enough to make up for that, and it had meant a lot to me.
And the past three days had meant even more.
I couldn’t remember a time, other than when we’d first met, that we’d been so good. We fit together, and when we got along, it was effortless and blissful. I closed my eyes, beaming at nothing. He’d reluctantly left for the studio at six, promising that he’d be back soon. I had nodded and immediately begun lazing around.
Just waiting for him to get home.
Which is why I was wrapped in one of his button-ups, cuddling his pick, and watching a crack in the plaster ceiling.
The door slammed and I immediately jolted out of my thoughts, swinging my legs off of the mattress, bare feet hitting the floor expectantly. The jangling noise of car keys and the muffled thump of a guitar sounded in the kitchen, followed by the wooden snap of a cabinet door.
I peeked around the doorway. There he was, with his back to me. I padded up behind him and he turned around, Jack in hand, black hair falling in his eyes, his shirt unbuttoned to his navel. I bit my lip as I felt myself tingle. God, did I really have to wait to fuck him until tonight? He grinned, setting the bottle down on the counter.
“Jenny.” He held out his arms plaintively, like a child, and I smiled to myself and went into them. He gave me a squeeze so hard that it almost hurt, and then grasped my waist and lifted me onto the counter.
“Hard day?” I asked as he buried his face in my stomach, arms locked around my midriff.
“No harder than usual,” came his muffled voice from somewhere around my bellybutton. “Same old same old.”
I stroked his dark hair, setting my chin on top of it. “Well, I sure am glad you’re home. Guess what I’m not wearing.”
He pulled away beaming, hands now resting on top of my thighs and looked me in the eye. “I’m fucking glad too. I wish you could be there sometimes, I’m not into Axl’s all-business shit.”
“Is that an invitation?” I teased, stroking his hands, trying to send him the message. He got it loud and clear, inching his hands up my legs in maddeningly small intervals.
“Jenny, would you like to drop by the studio next time we get together to get nothing done?” He smiled mischievously, knowing what he was doing to me.
“Izzy Stradlin.” I tried to sound stern, but I was pretty sure it came out more breathy than firm. I grabbed his hair as his left hand snaked its way beneath my oversize shirt. He winked wickedly, never breaking eye contact as the pad of his thumb began to trace light, barely-there circles on the inside of my thigh.
“Yes, darling?” Tracing the circles on both sides now.
“You’re a bad, bad boy,” I breathed, gripping his shoulders.
“Mm.” He made a general noise of amiable agreement before moving his hand close enough to barely brush my heat.
I gasped, feeling myself slickening, and he just laughed and threw me over his shoulder.
“Izzy!” I demanded, hair dangling down to his knees.
He responded by playfully slapping my ass, to which I could only make an indignant noise.
He made his way down the hallway and set me on my feet in front of the closet, hands moving from my thighs up the curve of my butt. Pressing against him, I looked him square in the face before leaning forward and licking his lower lip, my tongue traveling over his slightly chapped skin, tasting him. He was delicious, cigarette smoke and gin and apples and spice rolled into one. He moaned against my mouth, and I couldn’t help smirking. Served him right.
“Jen,” He groaned, burying his hands in my hair.
“Yes, Izzy?” I was sure of the words that were coming, hoping for them.
He pulled away slightly, running his thumb over my bottom lip.
“Want to go to the Troubadour?”
I stared at him, dumbfounded. “Is that some kind of sexual innuendo?”
He grinned devilishly.
“Izzy Stradlin!”
“What’d I do now?” he asked innocently, ducking my swing.
“You know very fucking well-”
He cut me off with his lips against mine, pressing hard enough to bruise. When he finally pulled away, I was short of breath and dizzy.
“C’mon, you can wear the new red thong.”
“Oh, you-”
He grinned and ducked again.
The wind whipped through my hair as we sped over the pavement of the Sunset Strip, my hands around Izzy’s lean midriff. He’d opted for the bike, so we could see the skyline. I looked around me. It was truly beautiful to me. Bright lights and psychedelic signs and loud voices. L.A. wasn’t such a bad place to be.
Especially with him.
I leaned my head back, watching the streetlights go by. No stars, but with all the lights, it didn’t really matter. Izzy would never say it, but I could tell that even though he belonged here, there was something in him that didn’t quite fit in. I saw it too. It was something I didn’t see in Slash or Steven or even Duff. I saw a bit in Axl, but his ego sometimes smothered it. It was a large part of Izzy.
It was difference.
Not difference in talent or skill or intelligence- it was a difference in something else.
And I didn’t know what it was, but it drew me to him like no one else had ever intrigued me, interested me.
He was the only one of his kind I’d ever met.
Izzy slowed the Harley down in front of the club, pulling around to the back lot. He flipped down the bike stand and I swung off first, leather skirt hiking up over my hips. He dismounted and took note, coming up behind me, moving his hands onto my bare skin underneath my shirt.
“You look hot as hell,” he murmured in my ear, squeezing my waist between his rough, warm guitar fingertips.
“You’re so romantic, Romeo,” I told him, but smiled to myself as we made our way around the side of the Troubadour. It was already packed- Friday nights were always absolute madhouses. When we’d first gone out together, I’d noticed how he acted around crowds. He would duck and weave and slink in and out. He wasn’t into it.
I was.
I liked the chattering of the crowd and the energy of the party.
So we’d begun to establish a system. He’d pick me up. He’d drive wherever we were going, because I didn’t have a car and couldn’t afford one. On the way, sometimes we’d talk; sometimes there would be dead silence. Neither of us minded that. He’d always pay for me to get in or for my drinks, because I’d had practically no money in those days. But I always went in first. I led the way for him, let him do his own quiet thing. He’d told the band we were fuckbuddies, and I told the rest of the dancers for the band the same thing.
I don’t think either one of us had wanted to admit anything different.
In fact, now, seven months later, still neither of us had admitted anything different.
Not out loud, at least.
I smiled.
Little had they known.
Sure enough, he grabbed my hand and fell back behind me as the door swung open. There was the usual noisy crowd. The club was packed with rebellious teenagers and musicians and strippers, all smoking cigarettes and dancing. The bar was busy, with three bartenders churning out shots and tumblers. I pulled Izzy in that direction, itching for a drink. I recognized the bartender with a start; we’d dated briefly when I’d first moved to L.A. Goddamnit, what was his name? Jim? James? It was James, I decided. I did remember that we’d slept together once, maybe twice. I reached over the heads of the throng at the bar as Izzy hung back, hands in his pockets.
“Vodka and tonic and a Jack!”
I had to yell to be heard, and I hoped he wouldn’t recognize me or my voice. The second he turned, however, his face morphed into familiarity and I resisted swearing to myself. I didn’t really feel like having to make awkward, post-relationship talk.
“Jen! I haven’t seen you in forever-” The noise of the joint drowned out the rest of what he said, so I just nodded politely and glanced back at Izzy. He didn’t seem aware of the guy, looking around at the crowd and eyeing the jukebox. James waved some people away from the bar, making room for me to come up against the counter, pulling out glasses and chattering all the while. I just nodded occasionally, not really listening to what he was saying.
“You look great.” He eyed me up and down, pushing my drink across the bartop. I took the glass and opened my mouth to say something when a strong arm circled me from behind.
“Doesn’t she?” Izzy’s voice inquired coolly, fingers gripping my waist.
“Oh-yeah- I, uh…” He looked wide-eyed at the two of us as Izzy’s cigarette smoke blew over the top of my head. I glanced up at him, and he winked before discarding the weed, pulling me against him, and kissing me until I saw stars. When we broke away, people were wolf-whistling and James’s mouth was slightly open, Izzy’s Jack forgotten in his hand.
“Thanks,” Izzy told him, plucking the glass from the bartender and leading me across the club. I poked him in the ribs, hard, and he gave me a wide-eyed look.
“What?”
“You know what,” I said, but smiled. Izzy shrugged, taking a swig out of his glass.
“Hey, gotta let people know whose lady you are.”
“Why, ‘cause you’re so big and fucking bad?”
“Yeah, girl.” I thought his half-grin and smile creases were going to kill me.
And he didn’t ask who the bartender was, didn’t ask how I knew him, didn’t ask anything, because Izzy just didn’t care enough.
And part of me loved him for it.
He pulled me into his lap when we reached a table, pushing his cigarette into the ashtray. I obliged, putting my arm around his neck and relishing in the pulsing beat of the music, the bright lights, and the feel of him underneath me, one of his hands carelessly on my hip. I liked to watch him. He was quiet almost all the time, but surrounded by people, he became almost completely introverted. Tonight he was playing mindlessly with his cigarette, with his eyes far away. I stared hungrily. I couldn’t help it. What I wouldn’t have given to go into that brain, to know what he was thinking. How I wished I could just pull his thoughts out, like thread, and separate them out before me until I understood.
Fucking enigma.
He turned and caught me looking at him. “What?”
I shrugged. “Nothing.”
He gave me the eye. “Obviously something. What, has my face gone green?”
I grinned, tugging his hat down over his eyes. “Nah, your face hasn’t gone green.”
“What is it then?” He laughed, pinching me hard on the butt.
“Izzy!” I swatted him, laughing too. “I dunno. You.”
“Me?”
“Yeah. Just you.”
He ducked his head, and I saw a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I hope that’s a good thing.”
“It is,” I assured him, taking a swig of my drink, my hand on his shoulder.
He was human, too.
“Y’know, I was thinking. . .”
“You should try that more often,” I said, earning myself another pinch. “Ow!”
He grinned. “I said, I was thinking that I never did tell you that I wrote a fuckin’ song. Kinda owe it to you.”
“Oh? Is it about all my best features?” I couldn’t resist a wink.
He laughed, grinding his cigarette butt even further on the table. “No, actually, it’s about, you know, dealing.”
“Huh.” I looked at him curiously. “And why do you owe it to me?”
“Wrote it when you were at Slash’s. Day after the gig.”
“Oh. D’you think you’re going to put it on the album?”
“The never-ending one?” He laughs again, this time a bit bitterly. “Yeah. The guys all liked it. ‘Cause, y’know, they’ve done and had their share as well as me.”
“Well, I’m glad you got some inspiration, then,” I said a bit sarcastically. He got creative ideas from an argument that I took seriously. Whoop-dee-fucking-doo.
He tugged gently on my hair. “Hey, don’t get pissed just ‘cause you’re my muse.”
“Muse, eh? Like Maar and Picasso?”
He grinned. “Yeah, just like that.”
“I could stand it.” I unfolded myself off his lap, grabbed his hand. “C’mon, you wanna dance or what?”
“Do you mean you’re not going to ask me properly?” He sprawled in the chair, a maddeningly cocky look on his face. I rolled my eyes, getting up close to him and walking my fingers up his shoulder.
“You’re damn sexy and I want to fuck you. Wanna dance for a bit so you can take me home and we can get down to it?”
He took my hand and pulled himself to his feet, smirking lazily down at me. “Tha’ sounds alright, baby.”
I lead him into the thick of the crowd, the bass beat pulsing through my veins. What a fucking rush. Better than cocaine. Not by much, but it was.
Plus, the Stones were on.
Let’s Spend the Night Together. Perfect.
He turned me around and put his hands on my waist, and we moved up and down and side to side, the raunchy rhythm thumping. His hands were running up and down my shoulders, my back, the curves of my hips and I knew he had gotten an eyeful when he moved up against me again. Something firm was pressed against my thigh. I backed it up, fitting into him, grinding my hips. His fingertips digging into my sides, crushing me to him as we danced.
“Want to know something?” I whispered in his ear, my hand finding its way to bury in his hair.
“Hmm?” He fit his chin in the crook of my neck, looking into my eyes over my shoulder. I closed them, smashing back against him.
“You’re so big and fucking bad.” And then I couldn’t help it.
I laughed.
By the end of the night, he was walking funny and I was sure wet spots were creeping down the inside of my thighs. Nothing like Kiss for a little dirty dancing, and the badass thrum of Love Gun had just about done us both in. Roles reversed, he practically carried me out of the Troubadour.
“C’mon, I wanna get home, gotta-”
“Alright, alright, just-”
He tried to cut me off with a kiss, but I ducked. “No, no, you gotta wait.” I snickered when he practically groaned.
“Jen, I’ve been waiting nearly all fucking night. C’mon-”
“Get on the damn bike,” I told him. “Go on.”
He swung his leg over the seat, wincing slightly when he sat down, kicking the motorcycle to life. “You coming?”
“Yeah.” I didn’t hesitate, but instead of getting on behind him, turned so we were face to face and straddled both his lap and the Harley. He moaned as I pressed down onto his hardness, and I couldn’t help it when my eyes rolled back in my head.
Fuck me.
“Are you fucking serious?” He gasped, burying his head in my cleavage.
“C’mon, let’s go.” I was grinding up against him, getting wetter by the second. I wanted him inside me.
“Hold on tight!” And we roared out into the street, with him looking over my shoulder and me hugging his middle. I fitted my chin into the crook of his shoulder and hung on tight, the backwards rushing feeling flying through me. A half-lap dance on a motorbike: How much more L.A. could you get? We flew through the city, attracting looks and wolf whistles. I didn’t care. Nothing was real except him beneath me, him pressing into my skin. It was a good fucking thing he knew what he was doing, or we probably both could have been killed that night. Then again, what’s a little partying without a risk rush?
As we neared the apartment, I couldn’t help it. I squeezed him tight and let out a whoop, the happy noise whipped away by the air. Almost home.
When we pulled into the parking lot, burning rubber, he lifted me off the bike by the hips, letting it fall where it may, and carried me up the outside stairs. I locked my legs around him, and he fumbled with the key in the lock. When we staggered into the room, with me wrapped around his waist, he flicked on the light and ripped his shirt off, then his shoes. He dropped onto the bed, already wriggling out of his pants.
“C’mon, baby, get down here-”
He was practically panting. I loved seeing him like this. I pulled off my tight top slowly, showing him the full effect of the red lace. He froze on the bed, watching me.
“I don’t think so. Not yet.”
“Oh god, Jenny, after all I’ve suffered tonight-”
I just smiled, licking my forefinger, trailing it to my chest. “Grab your favorite Aerosmith record.” Whipping my hair over, then back over my shoulders. Trailing my hand up my thigh.
“Because you’re in for a show tonight.”
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